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Archive for January, 2010

I’m so confused. I’m building an old Harley. The other day I was shocked to find male dominated, hetero-normative gender baiting language right there in front of me in my official HD Repair Manual on the topic of Tranny Rebuilding….oh, wait. Okay, now I got it.      So apparently tranny means something else to a mechanic.

I should have known that.   I’m a mechanic too.   So I would be, or am, dependent upon your politics, a  MTF Tranny mechanic rebuilding an HD Tranny. More to the point, I am a Granny Tranny and my transmission could be called my Granny Tranny tranny, and I would be a Granny Tranny Tranny mechanic.  I think.

And I do think  about  this problem of  language, and the power it has in the hands of a ruling class and their minions.  While I continue to agonize over the technological aspects of building my website, TransgenderLifeSupportServices, and play with my tranny, I peruse some of the other  radical writers of the alternative sex and gender community and marvel at the politically correct and incorrect lines of thought regarding the nature of the infinitely diverse categories and subsets of the aforementioned labels. In fact, a couple of times I even tried to make some connections with the other members of the group by leaving comments that ranged from the banal to the inflammatory. And WOW, it’s a like the Fight Club in some of those bastions of  Trans-intellectualism!

Rancor and vitriol [hey, those are great names for cats] rule the discussions about the words that are used to describe us…and I hope you know who I am referring to because I am more than a little afraid of any specificity that might incur the wrath of…well, you know, those people.

This absurb suicidal in-fighting, at just the moment when success for the movement seemed imminently possible, is one of the best indications that one of the states oldest weapons against minorities has indeed succeeded in fracturing  a movement already  imperiled by the psycho-social model of liguistic fascism.

To our great peril, we fail to take into account  the supremely subtle methods that the state uses to disempower any movement that might empower a certain artificially constructed group of people.

 If you doubt that this is a tool of the state, read or re-read the brilliant mind altering treatise on “The People History of the United States,” by Howard Zinn, R.I.P.  One cannot truly understand the situation that we  ‘FILL IN THE BLANK’  people find ourselves in without a deep understanding of the classism of sexual politics as determined by the state.

The level of linguistic imperative that exist now across all groups and subgroups of minorities in general is a symptom of a malaise that suits the purpose of the state, whose first and historically succesful weapon is fiendishly clever: Divide and Conquer.     Technically, the purposeful  linguistic division of a community or nation state  initiates the state’s goal of disempowerment. Often then,  the people do the rest.

There is no actual point at which this language based artifice begins. For as long as we have had male dominated society, we have male dominant language. In this sense the outcome of the discussion is a foregone conclusion. If the language is a precondition of our existence, so is the model upon which the language is predicated.

So I read the pages of my favorite TG/TS..okay, maybe I should put the TS first. But wait then I would offend the…okay, so I am just going to call you My People. You know who you are. Where was I?  Oh, so when I read the angry defensive exclusionary comments on so many blogs these days, I do so with a nod to the Apparachik. You, Sir, er uh, M’am… I’m so afraid of offending one of those…you know.    Anyway, YOU WIN!

The abstract divisions between humans, that seem so solid with the use of the state supplied language, exist because we confirm them.  When I was born in 1951, I had no verbal categorical description for the human being that I was becoming, therefore had no means of appraising or judging myself. 

 Later, in David Reuben much maligned book “Everything You Wanted to Know about Sex…” I found out that I was a transvestite. Oh the Ho-wah. Then I discovered Money and Green and knew that I was a transsexual. EEK!

Then I read Will Roscoe and decided I am Two Spirits. Then I realized that by the use of language, I had just created neurosis in myself.  And now after all these years, I don’t know what I am.

And I like it that way. As a benefit of having arrived at a point of linguistic liquidity, I now get to call myself whatever I want because I don’t know what any of it means to you. And even if I did know what it meant to you, I couldn’t change that about you. And why would I? What you think of me is none of my business.

But I can still have fun using the language to tickle or club people’s linguistic prejudice by virtue of their rigid subjective perception. I love to say things I ain’t sposed to,  in fact I would venture a bit further by saying it’s my job. To those who are fond of saying that everything happens for a reason, this is my raison d’etre- a full assault on political correctness.

So I call myself Sissygirl, with the intention of disempowering it as a pejorative of state authorized language. I tell people that my experience  as a post op Trans woman gives me the right to call MYSELF society’s new nigger. Despite the fact that the third definition in the Mirriam- Webster’s defines nigger as ‘any socially disadvantaged  group of people’, this usage always draws gasps  of shock and an indictment of my political insensitivity. Unfortunately, it rarely stimulates a discussion about  freedom of speech as described in the first amendment to the Bill of Rights.

This continual bickering between us, and I mean all of us, must stop, or it will have the same dire consequences as it did for all the other failed attempts at concensus that preceded our movement.  We are not the enemy. We must not turn on ourselves. Let’s take a step back for the sake of a little detachment, and identify the historical enemy of the people. Only then may we succeed by the combined weight of our intention to achieve human rights for all people.

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I’ve spent a year this month working on my new, nearly published website called “AWAKE FROM THE DREAM”.   The technical aspects are daunting for sure, but there is more resistance here inside.

I’ve been writing enprivate so no one one could attack me, not that anyone cares enough about what I have to say, to go on ‘attack’. It’s just this burden that I’ve been carrying around since I realized how imperiled I was at the ripe old age of ten. No ten year old should be compelled to bear a truth so horrible. But the truth was inescapable. It stared me in the face everytime I looked in the mirror. There was something WRONG with me.

And worse, the realization that  I couldn’t tell anyone presented me with two more inescapable facts: the most obvious of these was that I was unlovable and second, that support of any kind was impossible because I feared annihilation in a psychic sense.

So I’ve kept a lot to myself for the last five decades. And it almost killed me. Then on a day equally clear in my heart space, I sat in a delapidated lazyboy, nestled in an underground bunker one mile beneath  the stark beauty of the mountains of New Mexico, with Ms. Plato, one of my most trusted confidantes and would be psychologist -would-be because I steadfastly eschewed her psychological ministrations in lieu of a more balanced power sharing agreement.

I have been going to see Ms. P ostensibly to achieve some external perspective on life as a pariah, knowing full well that no satisfactory perspective exists. Desperate as I am for companionship, I am content to regard  her as a strangely comforting ally, muse and confidante at the terribly economical price of $20.00 an hour. She said it’s a deal becuase I was too weird to charge the full amount.

During my last visit, in a fit of egomaniacal frothing and gnashing of teeth, I snuck up behind her and lassoed her butt to a chair and forced her to listen, or pretend to listen to some of my written diatribe. When she recovered from her trauma, and the whipped cream but that’s another story, she she began to scream at the top of her lungs…

“Oh MY GOD, you write like freakin’ Hemingway…[some guy who apparently writes about Spanish sunsets and fishing in the waters just off Tierra del Fuego or some such place]. Rosie, you’re a Genius and a half. [I may be exaggerating] You should be published yesterday! You got a PHD in Tranny related suffering, and doubtlessly should be warping…I mean teaching young minds on the intracies of gender and stuff.”

She just kept shaking her head and mumbling stuff about me being the greatest unknown writer what ever lived and I kept on being as pseudo humble as my giant abandonment complex would let me and eventually over the course of the whole grinding affair, we came to the conclusion that I should write about stuff.

“Thank you your grace, but where would a lowly tranny writer girl like me find my niche?”

“Aw Crap,” she spat, “just buy yourself a website and people will flock to your domain.”

“M’kay”, I whispered, meek as a lamb and left.

So lately I’ve been sitting here in front of this word processor determined to write. Yet, without Ms. Plato’s enthusiastic counsel, those old thoughts start creeping back. In the form of the language of my culture, a voice that sounds like ninety-nine percent of all the people I’ve ever met, including me, says

“Forget it. What’s the point?  Who Cares. Do you know anyone who cares what you think…what you write? Give up. Putting yourself out there has only caused you pain and misery and you probably shouldn’t even..” BAM

That’s me slamming the door on that voice. I know better than to listen to that voice. And I know where that voice comes from, and so do you.

 I will explain in detail in the pages of my soon-to-be-published website

TransgenderLifeSupportServices.com…COMING SOON to a computer near you.

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